The fading dream

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Shaelas Tiraleth, the Mournland B arrakas 24, 999 YK

The giant towered above Thorn, a muscle-bound brute three times her height clad in glittering black chain mail. He swung his maul at her, the massive metal head of the weapon larger than she was, and she leaped out of the way, feeling the wind as it slammed into the ground just behind her. Thorn jabbed at him with her short spear, catching him on the arm before darting away. It was a solid blow, but against a beast of his size, all but futile. He was bleeding from a score of wounds, and yet he fought on, and one blow of his maul was all it would take to shatter her bones. She needed to finish the fight quickly. She stepped through space, catching a fleeting glimpse of the serene woods of Thelanis before returning to the ugly battle.

The jaunt brought her up onto the broad shoulders of the giant. As he turned his head to look at her, Thorn drove her spear into his eye, slamming it into the brain beyond. The soldier bellowed in rage and pain, dropping his weapon and trying to pull the spear free, but all he managed to do with his clumsy efforts was to drive it deeper still. Thorn knew a mortal wound when she gave one, but there was no time to wait for the beast to realize he was dead. Leaping from the shoulders of the stricken giant, she landed on her feet, drawing her sword as she searched the field for the banner of her lord.

Shan Doresh had committed the full force of the Fortress of Dreams to the struggle, but the Cul’sir host was a terrifying foe. All around her, Thorn’s brothers and sisters matched their speed and skill against the might of an army of giants. Steel and darkwood were the least of the weapons being brought to bear.

A giant raised his hand, and lightning lashed down from the sky, scattering Thorn’s kin. In return, one of the dreamshapers called forth a vision of hope-an image of their lord, as tall as a giant himself, wielding a curved sword that glowed like the moon itself. The dream titan charged the storm summoner, and lightning clashed with lunar radiance.

There was no time to watch the battle. Thorn had troubles of her own. She caught sight of the lord’s banner ahead, the half-closed eye held within the horns of the crescent moon, moon and eye shining in the darkness. But the enemy was upon her. The giant was smaller than the warrior Thorn had just brought down, and he wore robes instead of armor. He was a slaver, not a soldier, and was surrounded by a half-dozen thralls, the unfortunates Thorn’s people had come to save or, failing that, avenge. She’d heard that they had been twisted by foul magics, that they weren’t truly eladrin anymore, and looking at them, she could believe it. There was no light in their eyes, just dull whites and dark pupils. They were the eyes of a creature born of Eberron, not an heir to Thelanis. Could that spirit be returned? It was beyond her knowledge, but she didn’t want to kill them if she could avoid it. They had no such compunctions. Whether they were driven by enchantment or merely beaten into submission, they charged her, wielding knives and clubs. She tried to leap through space, but it was too soon; it was difficult to reach Thelanis in that time of shifting. If she could just push past the and, bring down the slaver, perhaps the slaves would be released.

It was a fine thought, but the slave warriors had no intention of letting her through. It was all she could do to stay alive as they slashed and swung at her, harrying her from all sides. She struggled to defend herself, but there were too many. The world went white as a club caught her in the back of the head. There was a flash of pain as a dagger tore the flesh of her arm. Her blade fell from stiff fingers, and she knew the end was near.

Then he was there. Shan Doresh, the lord of the fortress. His silver armor gleamed, the lunar eye at his breast blazing with his fury. He raised his hands, and the slaves dropped their weapons, falling to the ground in deep slumber. The slaver froze, his face a mask of fear.

For a moment she dared to hope. Then a voice thundered across the battlefield, louder than any mortal voice should be. “I tire of this game, little ones. You amused me for a time, and that time is over.”

She felt a strange tingling in her nerves as the voice roared around her, a terrible sense of vertigo. Was the world… was the world fading?

“You are creatures of too many worlds. Born in the Feywild, brought to our land, and drawing on the power of dreams. Two worlds too many… and one you’ve never truly seen. Let dreams be your home now, and like a dream, be soon forgotten.”

Her lord held his hands high, and she could see reality rippling around them. For a moment she hoped that he could counter whatever vile sorcery the Cul’sir emperor had prepared. But the chill was spreading throughout her. It was like shifting through space, but it wasn’t the warm woods of her home that were taking shape around her. Just cold darkness and she was falling into it, falling and falling and falling…

Thorn woke with a start. There were fingers brushing against her neck, a gentle touch against the stone. For a moment she thought of a man she’d met in Droaam, before sleep faded and instinct took over. She’d slept with Steel in her hand, and she rolled off the bed and onto her feet. A thought and the bracelets around her wrists extended along her forearms, becoming the blackened mithral vambraces she wore in battle. A second thought was all it took to shift her nightclothes into her working uniform.

“You need not fear me.” There was a woman sitting on the bed, a woman in a long, gray gown, her face hidden beneath a golden veil. “I have come to see my prophecy fulfilled.”

Thorn remained on her guard. The dream of battle had been so vivid, so real, and she still felt the adrenaline rushing through her veins. She was angry and the stone in her neck burned against the bone. She wanted to lash out…

She took a deep breath and tried to center herself. “Your prophecy. The stone wrapped in Thorn.”

“Yes.” The woman laughed and rose to her feet. She was taller than Thorn expected, easily six feet. Her arms were sheathed in long gloves of golden silk, and a circlet of golden leaves held her veil in place. Thorn could see that the gray of her dress was actually silver, gleaming in the light. But there were dark lines running all through the fabric, as if it were tarnished. “That’s the thing about prophecy. You never know how it will be fulfilled. I knew that Marudrix would find the stones, that all the stones would come to the circle. I assumed it was literal thorn, that he’d have to make his way through a maze of briars to find our lost treasures. Instead he brings you.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Tira of Shaelas Tiraleth, the Lady of the Silver Tree. Casoran told me that you’d heard my call. I have summoned the stones and their keepers, so together we may heal this wounded land. Come, Lady Thorn. Your companions await, as do the stranded lords of Thelanis.”

“Drix? Cadrel?”

“As I said, they await you at the heart of the tree. Come, I will explain all, but let me tell the tale to all of you at once.”

Something about the fey queen troubled Thorn. Her voice was beautiful, but the veil… something was wrong with the silhouette beneath it. Or perhaps it was just the pain. The stone in Thorn’s neck felt like a white-hot dagger digging into her spine. The shrapnel had caused her great pain after the accident, but in the past few months she’d thought she’d finally made her peace with it. But it burned as badly as ever. She thought back to the lessons she’d learned in her time with House Tarkanan, dispersing the agony and anger, letting it flow through blood and muscle, giving her strength.

Tira’s eyes gleamed behind the veil. “Relent, spirits,” she said suddenly. “Whatever has happened to you, it is not her doing. All of you, release your anger and be at peace.”

With those soft words, the pain flowed away like water. The stone was quiet again.

“How did you do that?” Thorn said.

“All things in time,” the lady said. “Come now. Let us find your friends and bring the seven stones together. Trust me, Thorn. Sheathe your weapon.”

Unlikely, she thought. But she was there to gather information, and that was clearly the path to follow. She returned Steel to his sheath.

“The other lords and ladies may greet you with anger,” the woman said. “You are a surprise in many ways. Let me explain, to you as well as them. Now take my hand, and let the story begin.”

Thorn held out her hand as the woman approached, but she kept her free hand on Steel’s hilt.

For a moment, she felt the woman’s skin, warm against her hand. Then the world fell away again.

The world took shape around her in a blur of warmth, silver, and voices. She was in a large chamber with a domed roof. A round table filled the heart of the room, and Thorn and the lady had appeared in the open center. Walls and table alike were formed of the silver wood of the tree, beautiful and polished. People were sitting all around them. She heard Cadrel before she saw him then caught a scent of his cologne; he was sitting behind her, next to Drix.

“Lady Tira. Good of you to finally grace us with your presence.” It was a man’s voice, hard and cold. The speaker was an eladrin, but like Tira herself, he was unusually tall. His skin was pale, his hair dark, his eyes filled with a bitter blue light. He and his retinue were girded for war, wearing ivory armor that Thorn recognized from the briefing in Wroat. They were the eladrin of the north, from the ice citadel in Karrnath. “And what have you brought us?”

“Patience, Lord Syraen.” Tira placed her hand on Thorn’s shoulder and gestured to Drix. “Be seated and I will begin.”

“Good.” The eladrin sitting across from the winter lord was dressed in robes of green and gold, and sparks of emerald light drifted around his head like fireflies. “We have troubles of our own. Even now, the goblin hordes are howling at my gates. To leave now, taking the heart of power… you had best know what you are doing, Tira. And I trust you will repay this favor in full.”

“Favor?”

Whoever the green lord was, he’d gone too far. Thorn was looking away, making her way over to Drix, but she felt the woman’s anger, a charge building in the air like lightning in a storm. When she looked back, Tira’s eyes burned like the sun. Whether it was magic or the sheer power of her personality, Tira seemed to tower over the others.

“Lord Joridal, I advise you to remember who I am and where you are.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, but the floor seemed to shake with her words. “The Silver Tree. First of our seven cities. The bridge between worlds. Your city is just one branch of the tree-and no branch can live if the trunk rots away. This is no favor you do me. This is about our survival.”

“So you say.” The woman who spoke wore armor made from overlapping leaves, and roses were woven within her long, red-gold hair. Her eyes burned with golden light. “The city of Rose and Thorn prospers as it always has. I came out of respect, not need.”

Tira’s anger had calmed. “Your city has always been close to this world of mud. But surely you realize that the period of the shift has continued for longer than it ever has before. The problems of Joridal, the threat facing Syraen… none of these would be an issue if we could just return home. But we can’t. And we never will until we restore the roots of the Tree itself.”

“I know I’m last to the party,” Thorn said. “But Aureon’s word! What are you talking about? Who are you exactly?”

Cadrel smiled and Drix laughed aloud. Hmm, Steel whispered. Thorn wished she could draw the blade, but the best she could do was to keep her hand on his hilt. You don’t want to be too subtle, now.

All of the fey turned to look at her, and the lords all began to speak at once, anger and curiosity flowing together in a mass of words. Then Tira raised her hand, and silence fell across the chamber. It was utter and unnatural, and Thorn could see a few of the lords still trying to speak; no sound would fill the air. At last they settled, and Tira spoke again.

“I said that I would explain all when we were gathered. And now we are. By my own hand, I brought a curse down upon our people. It is my fault that we are stranded in this world, revealed and threatened by those we thought unable to touch us. And it is by my hand that the curse shall be broken. This is no simple task. It will take all our strength and all our power. I need Ourelon’s Gift brought together again. And this is why I have petitioned you for all these years, why I have spoken to you through the shards. You know my sight reaches far, and I know what must be done if the curse is to be broken. This is the time. The light of Irian shines upon the world. The influence of Lammania grows. Now we can wipe the bloodstains from the soil and restore our bond to our beloved homeland.”

“That’s fascinating,” Thorn said before anyone else could speak. “With the understanding that when I say ‘fascinating,’ I mean ‘completely incomprehensible.’ I’m still waiting for an actual explanation.”

The ice lord hissed and started to rise, but Tira raised her hand, and he returned to his seat. She looked at Thorn, her eyes gleaming beneath her veil. “We are lords and ladies of the Faerie Court. Each among us holds dominion over a realm within perfect Thelanis, or consorts with the ruler of such a realm.”

“So what brings you here?” Cadrel said.

Tira’s eyes flashed. “Human, you are only in this place out of respect for those you travel with. Speak out of turn, and I will sew your mouth shut with a glance.”

Cadrel raised his hands in a placating gesture. “My apologies, Lady. As a storyteller myself, I have heard many tales of your land and your people; my curiosity got the best of my manners. Please, continue.”

“Thelanis and your world have always been closely bound. Surely you know that there are times and places where it is possible to pierce the veil that lies between the two. So it is with our spires. Long, long ago our cities fell from Thelanis into this world. The first of our rulers met with the dragons, who at that time were the rulers of Eberron. We exchanged gifts, formed bonds between our people. And the Silver Tree became the bond between our worlds, a living link that would hold the two together.”

“So why haven’t we heard of you before now?” Thorn said.

“We made our pact with the dragons before humans had learned to speak, before the race of elves even existed. And we spent but a little time in this world, as you measure things. As the moons wax and wane, so it is with the planes. When all things were in proper alignment, our spires would fall from Thelanis to your world, and when the influence changed, we would return to the realm of our birth.”

“So you come and go,” Thorn said. “That still doesn’t explain how the Cyrans missed the enormous tree city shifting in and out of alignment.”

Tira nodded. “Trusting as we were, we had no fear of this world. And this cost us dearly. Seven cities came to this world. One was destroyed long ago, sacked and leveled by the giants who rose to power when the dragons fell back to their lairs in Argonnessen. A second fell in battle. You see the representatives of the five surviving spires before you.”

“Only one fell in battle?” Cadrel said. “How did that happen? Surely you all fought to-”

He never finished the sentence. The Lady of the Silver Tree gazed at him, her eyes blazing, and his voice died in his throat. “I warned you once. I did not call you here, human.”

“But you called me here,” Thorn said, “and he is with me.”

“And for that reason I shall restore his voice when we are done here and not before.”

Thorn considered protesting, but a glance around the room changed her mind. It was clear that Cadrel had touched a nerve; all of the fey were watching him, eyes burning with anger. “Very well, then,” she said. “Two of the spires fell. And so…”

“Most of us realized that your world held nothing for us but danger and ill fortune,” Tira said. “And so we wove a great glamour, a cloak that spread out from the roots of the Silver Tree to conceal every branch. Your kingdoms rose around us, but the power of the glamour kept them from ever building too close to us or from seeing our spires when they fell back to your world. A few individuals found us, yes, and through these few, we formed bonds to your world. But we were content to watch from afar, seeing your kingdoms rise and fall.”

If this is true, the power is remarkable, Steel whispered. A spell channeled through a single focus, cloaking a half dozen cities for thousands of years. It seems improbable but we know the giants of Xen’drik possessed magic we have yet to replicate, and the power of Argonnessen is legendary. But what does this have to do with the Mourning?

“So what went wrong?” Thorn asked.

“He did.” Tira looked at Drix. “Just years ago as you measure time-a mere moment to us-my son was hunting with us. He drew ahead of us, but I had no fear; my sight is strong, and I’d seen no danger.” She looked at the ground. “My sight is strong, but the future is never certain. We found him dead on the ground. This man-little more than a child himself at that time-stood over him, a bloody blade in his hand. Fury overtook me, madness at seeing my nightmare made real. I seized the knife and stabbed the boy myself.

“The moment the blood of my child and this man of Cyre mingled on the ground, the earth trembled and shook. The glamour snapped and broke. I felt the land itself being torn apart, nature twisting on the most basic level.”

“The Mourning,” Thorn said. “But that’s just bad timing. A coincidence.”

“There is no coincidence,” Tira replied. “At that time, I didn’t know who this child was. You see the mingling of our blood in his features-human and fey.”

“He’s half-elf. So am I.”

“You carry debased blood in your veins. You are descended from the slaves of Xen’drik. Marudrix… he is of us. I told you that there were those who found us, even through the glamour. His ancestor was such a one, a brave warrior who won the heart of one of our own.”

Cadrel tapped her arm. He couldn’t speak but he mouthed a word: Ma-something… Marusan. Marusan. The knight in his tale. Marusan… and Marudrix.

“This was before I rose to wear the Circle of Leaves,” Tira continued. “Else I might have seen it in his features. But that man… he became a bridge between our worlds, as the Tree itself was. His descendants became the keepers of this forest. My predecessor even gave them one of Ourelon’s shards, to preserve the memories of those who fell between our visits.”

The ice lord rose to his feet again. “The line of keepers was extinguished over five cycles ago, when the Preserving Shard was lost to us. This is impossible!”

“I can discipline you as easily as the human, Syraen.” Tira’s eyes blazed. “Yes, we thought the line of keepers destroyed. And once again we find that our sight is not so perfect. This boy was of that blood. I struck him in anger, struck him for a crime he did not commit, spilled that blood upon that of my own son. And in so doing, I unraveled the foundation of both our worlds and set the Mourning in motion.”

Thorn looked at Cadrel. He couldn’t speak, but his expression mirrored her thoughts: She really thinks she caused the Mourning by stabbing Drix. We’re in the Tower of the Silver Madwomen.

Then she noticed that no one else was smiling or questioning it. The expressions of the fey were cold and grim.

“I’m sorry,” Thorn said. “I mean no disrespect, but you’re serious about this? Perhaps you didn’t realize it, but out beyond your woods, we’ve been fighting a war for the last century. The Mourning only targeted Cyre. Why would your curse do that?”

“You are mistaken,” Tira said. “The Mourning didn’t target Cyre.”

Thorn didn’t know what to say to that. She was even more surprised by what happened next.

She’s right, Steel said. But ask her what she means.

But Tira continued on her own. “Trust me, we are aware of your wars and your kingdoms. Your Cyre was a changing beast. In days past, it was far larger than it was that day. So if the curse struck at Cyre, why didn’t it affect the nation of the goblins, or the elves to the east?”

Exactly, Steel said. And it wasn’t even tied perfectly to those borders; Darguun and Valenar were simply quick to seize what little land remained outside the mists.

“What’s your explanation?” Thorn said.

“The curse should have spread across your world and ultimately through the bond into Thelanis as well. The moment I realized what was happening, I acted to save the boy. I bound the Shard of Life to him, the shard of the Silver Tree. And in doing so, I bound the curse to him. It is not your Cyre that holds the Mourning. It is Estara, the kingdom that stood here before your Galifar conquered it and gave it to his daughter. Marudrix is of the blood of the keepers of the wood and, through lost Marusan, a prince of Estara.”

Drix had been barely paying attention throughout all of that; perhaps he’d heard it before. But that snapped him back. “What? How am I a prince?”

“You are a prince of a lost kingdom. In the eyes of magic, you are that kingdom. In saving you, we stopped the advance of the mists, symbolically binding them to you.”

“This is ridiculous.” It was the ice lord again. “How dare you bind one of our greatest artifacts to an outsider? That is the source of our weakness. That is what drains the life of the tree. You have given its heart to a mortal.”

“You were not there, Syraen! I assure you, the glamour fell as the boy lay dying. Go outside and you’ll see the soil still tainted by his blood.”

The Lord of the Emerald Lights spoke, his sparks swirling around his head. “Either way, you are the one who brought this misfortune upon us.”

“And I am the one that can bring it to a close,” she said. “I have spent every moment since that day studying the matter. And I know what can be done.”

“And what’s that?” Thorn said.

“Keeping Marudrix alive holds the curse at bay, binding it to him. To bring it to a close, he must be healed completely. The unjust stroke must be undone. We must take Ourelon’s shard away from him and restore his heart again.”

The fey fell to arguing again. Next to her, Thorn heard Cadrel take a sudden sharp breath.

“Olladra smiles,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“What do you make of this?” she said quietly, rubbing her thumb against Steel’s hilt as she spoke.

“It seems most unlikely,” he replied. “But in my day, I’ve heard many stranger stories. We’re dealing with the fey, Thorn, with a woman who can hide a city from view or steal my voice with a glance. As unlikely as it seems, it is the sort of thing that would happen in one of the old tales.”

I have to agree, Steel said. It’s far more likely that it’s a vast coincidence. Yet as long as there is any chance that it is true, that this could somehow restore the Mournland or help us understand the true power behind it, we have to follow through. Getting the Cyran refugees out of Breland alone would be a tremendous boon to the nation. Beyond that… if she can remove that shard from Drix, that means it could be claimed for Breland. If it can be proven that the Mourning no longer poses a threat, the war will begin again; you know that as well as I do. Acquiring such a tool for Breland-not attached to a Cyran tinker-would be a great success.

Good enough. Thorn drew Steel and rapped against the table with his pommel. “Enough!” she shouted. The others paused and looked at her with varying degrees of surprise and anger on their faces. “Say we believe you. What is this next step? What have you learned?”

Tira glanced at the other fey, her eyes still burning behind the veil. “I sacrificed one of Ourelon’s shards to save the boy. The shards are bound together, just as our cities are bound together, just as the boy is bound to the soil. At this time, under these moons, if all the shards are brought together, like will call to like.”

“What are these shards?”

“Fragments of the gift the dragon Ourelon gave to the first lord of the Silver Tree, or so say the memories bound in the stone,” Tira replied. “Each tied to one of the spires, each holding great power. The strength of the spire is tied to the stone. So Syraen is correct; in surrendering my stone to Drix, I weakened the Silver Tree. Yet the alternative was far worse.”

Syraen spoke again. “You require all the shards for your mad plan, sister. But you know as well as I how many have been lost. The Preserving Shard. The Stone of Dreams. The Quiet Stone. Have you found them all?”

Tira looked at Thorn. “Show them, girl. Show them my prophecy made manifest.”

And this is where it all falls apart, Thorn thought. Might as well see it through. She turned around and shifted her uniform to simple peasant clothes. Pulling her blouse at neck and waist, she revealed the shrapnel in her spine.

A hush fell over the room. Then the voice of the Rose Queen broke the silence. “Impossible.”

There was a gust of cold air, and Lord Syraen was by her side. “Hold, woman,” he hissed.

Thorn wanted to punch the arrogant eladrin in the throat, but she resisted the urge and let him run cold fingers along her spine. In truth, she was as surprised as they were.

“Tira speaks the truth,” he said at last. “The Quiet Stone and the Preserving Shard, held in mortal flesh.” He drew a sword with a pale blade that steamed in the warm air of the council room. “At least these can be cut free.”

Thorn was moving even as he drew the sword. The words had barely left his mouth when she kicked him in the chest, calling on every ounce of her unnatural strength. The fey warlord staggered backward, gasping for air. The others got on their feet. Thorn rolled away just in time to evade the net of emerald lights that flashed through the air. The Rose Queen raised her hands, and bramble vines unfolded from her hair. Only one of the fey remained distant and uninvolved-a gnome dressed in robes that shimmered with the shifting colors of a rainbow.

Drix was at her side, his tiny crossbow in his hand. Cadrel was there as well, his rapier gleaming. It seemed impossible that they could stand against the eladrin and their retinues, but she was glad for the help.

The battle ended as quickly as it had begun. “Enough!” Tira roared and her voice had the force of a gale, slamming the combatants back. Once again she towered above them, her eyes blazing and her golden crown gleaming. “Her blood may be mixed with the soil, but this woman is a guest beneath my boughs, and you will not harm her here!”

Syraen’s warriors were standing at his side, blades of ice glistening in the silvery light. “Then perhaps we shall take our leave and await her beyond your gate. How can you allow this to occur? Two of the greatest treasures of our people, in the hands of a mortal? This is our chance to reclaim what we have lost!”

“You’re all mad,” Thorn said. “These are no treasures in my back. This is shrapnel from an explosion. I’m lucky I lived through it. I was struck by dozens of shards; these are just the ones they couldn’t remove.”

“Both of you know nothing,” Tira said. “Thorn, these are no common crystals in your spine. Syraen is correct. They are two of Ourelon’s shards. The Quiet Stone in the base of your spine was the heartstone of our spire in Xen’drik, the city that fell to the giants. The Preserving Shard holds the spirits of our greatest leaders; it was placed in the care of Marusan’s line and lost when the vile wyrm laid waste to the woods.”

“Then how-?” Thorn began. She shut her mouth when Tira looked at her, before the fey queen turned to her magic to do the job.

“Syraen, I have devoted myself to the study of the shards. Once they are bound to mortal flesh, they cannot be removed by force. Aside from killing the bearer, the blood and anger would taint the shard forevermore. This curse began with an act of violence; you cannot end it with another. You shame our people with your behavior, and if I did not need you to bring this curse to an end, I would order you to return to the Winter Citadel immediately. Sheathe your weapons now. I remind you that though the walls may crumble around me, this is my seat of power, and you will show me due respect!”

Thorn was barely listening. Her thoughts were racing. What did she mean? Vile wyrm… holds the spirits of our greatest leaders.

The winter lord slowly sheathed his sword. “I will aid you, Tira, because you speak the truth. The fates of our spires are linked. My people wish to return to the land of the long night, and if it is your curse that binds us here, we will help you break it. But know this: I will not forget how you have treated me this day. Nor will I forgive you for bringing this plague upon us to begin with. I stand beneath your boughs, and I will bow to your will today. I suggest you never seek my hospitality again.”

“So be it.”

“I see one problem with your plans, Lady Tira.” It was the gnome. His voice was soft and pleasant, and the colors of his robe swirled as he spoke. “You said that all eight shards would be required. You have found two of the lost shards. But what of the third? Where is the Stone of Dreams?”

Tira’s eyes dimmed behind her veil. “I do not know. In my visions I saw all eight of the stones in our circle. I never saw how they arrived, and it seems my vision was clouded. I can only hope that we can restore the wound with seven of the shards, but I fear it will not be possible.”

“Then rejoice, Lady Tira.” The voice was deep and confident and seemed to fill the room. The speaker stood in the doorway, a tall man dressed in black and silver. He wore a hooded cloak, and a silver mask sculpted to resemble a handsome eladrin. There was something familiar about him… Then Thorn saw the brooch tied to his cloak. A crescent moon with an opalescent stone held between the horns. He reached up to remove the mask, and for a moment Thorn felt an inexplicable sense of dread. But the face below was as handsome as the mask itself and even more familiar. He looked directly at Thorn and smiled.

It was the man from her dream.